Chapter 7

Soldier boy, made of clay

Now an empty shell

Twenty one, only son

But he served us well

Bred to kill, not to care

Just do as we say

Finished here, Greeting Death

He's yours to take away

"Disposable Heroes" by Metallica

Twisting her hands in her lap, Amelia Novak wonders how many times she will have to recount this tale. First, to the bored looking police officer that had dutifully taken the report twenty four hours after Claire's disappearance: to him, it was just another juvenile delinquent running off from a crappy situation. Then, to a detective who had made her feel as if she was suspect, some instinct of his active enough to gather that Amelia wasn't telling the whole truth of her worries. That the demons had come again, that the monsters were hunting them. . .

That fear she gave to the Winchesters.

And now she was on her fourth round of explanations. The FBI had become involved, and from the faint smirk she saw out of the corner of her eyes on the lips of the woman of the pair of them, she had worried they weren't taking it seriously either. But the man sat before her, asking her permission before moving a laundry basket from one of the chairs, as if it wasn't an embarrassing matter, but simply a courtesy. As if she was afraid someone was going to dig through her underwear while her daughter was missing. Sitting across from her, he'd taken notes, made interested sounds, and then gotten to why they were really there.

"Do you think your husband may have had something to do with her disappearance?"

The question left Amelia winded, shocked, pained. As if to make matters worse, the female agent plucked the one picture of Jimmy left anywhere in the house off of the crowded back table, a picture she couldn't give up, and yet buried behind others because she couldn't bear to look at it.

"My husband is dead. . ." Amelia begins, because the insurance had paid out and long ago been used up, a paltry little thing for a man who'd sold AM radio ads. He had been declared dead, and as far as the world was concerned Jimmy had never shown back up. . .

"We're not here from the insurance agency, Ms. Novak." The woman practically oozes, and from the chair the man shoots her a warning look, folding his notebook away and tucking it into his jacket pocket, with barely anything noted on it. "We know good ol' Jimmy has been spotted worldwide. . . quite the terrorist you married."

Terrorist? Amelia doesn't seem to realize she said it aloud, until the male agent looks back at her, folding his arms across his chest, brown eyes belying every bit of sympathy he'd offered at the start. "It's true that your husband has been described and photographed worldwide at events of . . . evangelical terrorism. Hundreds died, and he's managed to elude capture so far."

The female agent seems amused again, as she pulled a file from the case on her shoulder, flipping it open before handing it to Amelia, and within it is. . . carnage. White supermecists. Supposed Christian Value groups. Church leaders. Dictators. "We have cause to suspect, though, that he is in town and in the company of his accomplice. . ." Dean Winchester smirks at her from a mugshot, looking several years younger than the man who had been in her living room, looking over her life as if he was superior to her, with his nomadic life and lack of job. And a rapsheet, including murder in St. Louis that would horrify her sweet, faithful Jimmy.

A man that should have never been around an Angel of the Lord.

The woman smirks again, as Amelia looks at the pictures before her in horror, in fascination, in terror, and glancing at her partner she tips her head towards the door, the damage done, and damn she loves this part, that little seed of doubt, the unwitting idiots who made the game as fun as it was easy.

"You keep that, Ms. Novak. So you know who you're dealing with. Don't become an accomplice." Meg Masters practically purrs, her hand resting on the elbow of her favorite new catspaw as Ruben Rivera rises to his feet again.

"We'll be in touch."

. . .

The moment Castiel closes the door behind Sam, leans a shoulder against the wall, and without looking at Dean rumbles "We need to talk." Dean has to question whether he chose the phrase on purpose or not. Their last heart-to-heart had started that way, and Cas had nearly had a panic attack, because Dean apparently hadn't been closely monitoring his late-night television watching well enough to keep him off of chick flicks ("it was on.") that made that phrase the most dreaded utterance in the history of fictional relationships.

So, either it was a talk, or it was a talk, and considering how things went last time he clears his throat and watches the angel expectantly, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, so talk. And find a new line."

He is reassured when Cas snorts quietly, apparently remembering the same situation. "I will work on that. Demanding that I talk undermines the concept that we should talk, however."

Dean drains the bitter dregs of his coffee, staring at the bottom of it and frowning. Down to business, then. "I'm still not backing down from protecting you."

"There's protecting me, and then there's guarding me. We protect each other. If you persist in attempting to guard me, we are going to continue having fights like this one and like Chitaqua." Castiel's voice is level, even, and he makes his way to Dean, perching uncomfortably on the arm of the couch, his feet on the empty cushion beside Dean's, arms resting on his knees. It puts him above Dean, where he has to look up at Cas, and maybe it's instinct and maybe Dean's just as much of a pain in the ass, but he shifts up out of his seat and mimics Cas on the other arm, as if they both have to be uncomfortable to make the conversation work, and because it puts Dean back at eye level, their knees nearly touching, feet bracketing each other's.

"We needed you to go with Bobby anyway, and we needed to talk to Amelia. . ." Castiel makes a cutting gesture with his hand, shaking his head, and Dean rankles at the interruption.

"Yes. I understand that. Which is not the point. You could have achieved the same outcome by telling me as much, rather than insult my intelligence by pretending it wasn't angelic activity, and assuming that I would have insisted on going. It was not about the tactical issues. It was about 'protecting' me from the potential emotional backlash of having failed to protect the Novaks. You are treating me as psychologically unstable."

"Do I really gotta answer that?" Dean mutters, watching Castiel flatly.

"Just tonight you were considering giving yourself up as a vessel to Michael, which would doubtless be the end of you, and quite possibly the world." Castiel counters, and Dean scowls sullenly. They didn't have proof that was what he was thinking. . . and he wasn't going to take that as an adequate comparison when Cas had apparently been doing the self-loathing thing for their entire relationship now.

It's a beat before Castiel sighs, dropping his chin, and his shoulders sloop again. "You also do not need to remind me of what I am, Dean. I am aware that I am 'not an angel.' I am never unaware of what I was and what I am not. I have had. . . difficulties adjusting. But I am trying." And, seemingly connected only in ways that Castiel would understand, he continues in the same breath. "You never have to sleep on the couch, Dean."

". . . You're seriously going into a tangent now?" God help him, he was the boyfriend that wanted to talk about their feelings now.

"This is a very uncomfortable couch." Castiel remarks reasonably, as if it made perfect sense in that context. Dean can't help but laugh, and Castiel catches him by his shirt collar and kisses him, kneeling on the cushion of the couch between his feet, head tipped back, and shit. . . Cas was the boyfriend who wanted to have sex instead of talking about his feelings.

It's strange day when screwing his boyfriend is the least 'gay' option in front of Dean. "This isn't over yet." He growls against Castiel's lips, already reaching to catch the hem of Cas's shirt, pulling it up until he's contorting his arms to try and pull them free without moving away, the fabric eventually breaking their kiss long enough to get it out of the way.

"No, it is not over." Cas agrees, working to strip off Dean's shirt, running his hand over his back muscles and onto Dean's broad shoulders, pulling him in closer so they are connected from lips to knees. Dean, sighs, wants to give in, lean into his angel and stop thinking, but he knows they can't, not yet. He sighs again, thinking he really is turning into a girl. Dean turns his head, but Cas just starts trailing little nips and kisses along his jaw and down his jugular, sucking gently at the base of his neck. One hand trailing fingernails along his spine, the other teasing gently on the back waistband of Dean's jeans.

It takes a moment, and a lot of will power, for Dean to clear his throat and push back from the dark haired man's embrace. "We can't just eliminate options, Cas. Not without a good reason." His voice comes out deep and a little breathless. He almost forgets his resolve when he feels Cas's hand inside his jeans massaging one buttock, wonders when his lover had managed to unfasten his pants. He feels Cas huff a warm exhale on his collarbone as the fallen angel maneuvers him into a reclined position.

Pulling himself into sitting on his heels, Cas glares down at Dean. "I'm not finished talking. I just want you to be quiet and listen. We cannot keep having this conversation because you don't know your own worth, Dean. You. Cannot. Say. Yes." Cas has used the change of position to finish tugging off Dean's clothes. He is kneeling between his lover's knees admiring his lean muscular body, the warm skin honey-toned. Cas keeps a determined glint in his blue eyes.

"C'mon, Cas. Think like the commander. You, Bobby, Sammy. You three have tons of knowledge and intelligence. You're all smarter than me. You're all good fighters. I'm just….ouch! Damnit, Cas! You bit me." Dean grabs Cas's hair as his head moves up until they are face-to-face again. Cas glares at him.

"Shut up, Dean." It's an angry growl, and Cas's face is furiously serious. "This is what I'm talking about. Your dangerous lack of self-esteem. Listen to me; Sam, Bobby, and I will fall apart without you. You are the glue that keeps our little band together. You are the heart that beats to keep us alive. You are my compass – my lodestone to point to the direction of righteousness. Without you, I 'fuck up monumentally'. So does Sam. Bobby stops caring. Don't you ever forget that. Without you, there is no us."

Dean inhales, trying to think how to answer that, his chest constricting with feelings, but Cas doesn't give him a chance to reply. He captures his mouth, not gentle as he steals any chance of an argument with his urgency, chases away Dean's reply with strong, capable hands and mouth.

The couch is no more comfortable with two occupants laying on it.

. . .

The knock on the door catches them as Dean packs duffels, pausing to idly towel his hair dry before looking to the door and rolling his eyes that Sam had bolted fast enough to forget his room key. . . again.

Amelia Novak's hollow, stony stare is an accusation as she flicks her gaze from Dean's shocked look, to Castiel as he walks out of the bathroom in jeans and pulling on a shirt, his hair a tousled disarray from toweling it dry that put the just-landed look of his angel days to shame. For a split second, Dean is oddly grateful that with Sam having crashed there earlier, both beds are mussed, but Amelia is not fooled; two rumpled beds or not the men's lips are swollen with kisses, a bite mark blossoms purple and red on Castiel's shoulder, and the smell of sex hangs in the air.

"This is what you are doing instead of finding our daughter? With him? So you're gay now, and you stopped. . . stopped caring?" Amelia's first words to Cas are an accusation, and Dean winces as Cas withdrawals in on himself, face impassive, body still. Amelia's anger is directed at both the men.

"I am not Claire's father. I am not your husband." Castiel says evenly, and it twists something in him unexpectedly. His first words in this vessel, his first words with a human mouth, were this same sentiment with the same tactless bluntness, and the same devastating impact.

A lack of finesse that led them to this day, to Claire Novak's face with Asmodeus's sweet poison rolling from her lips.

"What happened to you?" Amelia asks, with a look that crosses horror and revulsion.

Dean shoots him a quick look, trying to convey something he misses (their silent communication only seemed to fail when Castiel most could use the instruction) and then ushers Amelia to a chair at the table, offering her a bottle of water from the room refrigerator. Cas sits across from her, studying her unabashedly as she stares riveted at him, as Dean continues his nervous movements, making coffee now in the two-cup motel pot, throwing towels in the bathroom, tossing toiletries into their bag. "You don't even look like him anymore." She chokes out, and it sounds mournful and strangely terrified. A widow, staring at the breathing corpse of her husband.

There's some truth to it, Dean has to admit, though he wishes she hadn't caught Cas pulling his clothes on and witnessed most of it. Tattooed and scarred chest, with the lean muscles of a hunter instead of Jimmy Novak's slight, runner's physique gone a bit soft in sedentary life. Faded jeans and a hand-me-down henley, instead of Jimmy's churchgoing suit. A few more creases at the corners of his eyes.

"I am not Jimmy Novak," Cas reinforces, voice low and somber. "Nor am I the angel Castiel any longer. I will, however, help you locate Claire – if I can. But Amelia, Claire has accepted another angel as a vessel. I cannot guarantee you your desired outcome."

As Cas starts talking to Amelia, Dean slips out of the room, away from the awkward conversation, and knocks two doors down where Bobby and Sam are staying. Sam takes in Dean's face, and starts looking for weapons. "What's wrong? Where's Cas?"

"Amelia is in our room, with Cas." Dean's throat feels so tight he isn't sure how words are getting through, but he is managing, barely. "Where's Bobby?"

"He stepped out to get breakfast." Sam tells Dean to hang on while he finishes packing, offering that they can all go back to the room together as if one widow and dismayed mother is worse than all of the monsters they face on a daily basis. In a lot of ways. . . that's pretty true. "You think Cas'll be okay that long?" Dean nods, still looking lost, and his brother shakes his head. "You okay, Dean? You and Cas okay? Cas talk to you?"

Dean nods, looking up at Sam, but he speaks to what's on his mind rather than the question his brother puts to him. "I never, you know, had to worry about the husband-wife thing before, Sam. She's so angry." Sam takes in his brother's appearance, sock-clad feet to rumpled, un-styled hair, green eyes too wide open and face pale enough for the freckles to stand out. All together, Dean looks about 15, and incredibly vulnerable to be his big, brash brother.

"Cas isn't her husband, Dean, he never was. Jimmy was, and you know that Jimmy's dead." Sam is brushing this problem away, more worried about his brother's martyr complex. "I need to know that you guys got things straightened out, Dean. That you're not going to do anything stupid; let Michael wear you to the prom. Dean?"

Dean is still standing by the room's door. He sighs, "Yeah, Sammy, Cas talked to me about that." Sam motions for him to continue. "He says …." The rest is muttered so low that Sam can't hear it from where he is packing.

"What? What did he say Dean?" Sam strides the few steps until he is right in front of Dean again, and after a moment he glares at him. "Repeat what you just said, but this time stop muttering and speak up." He impatiently raps Dean's chin with his knuckle to lift his head up for eye contact. Whether he means to or not, Sam is behaving exactly like John Winchester, and Dean realizes it even as he practically snaps to attention in a learned response.

"I promised not to say yes." Dean tilts his head up and glares back, realizing again that life has been extremely unfair by allowing his little brother grow into a frikkin' giant.

Sam crosses his arms in front of him. "And?"

"And what?"

"Did he tell you why?" Sam feels like he is actually pulling teeth.

Dean rolls his eyes, and he throws in finger-quotes to underscore the ridiculousness of this entire situation. "He said I'm the 'glue.'"

"The glue?" Sam is unrelenting. He plans to stand here, and keep his brother here, until he understands the entire situation.

Deans face grows red. "The glue holding this group together," he grounds out averting his eyes from his brother's which also means he has no advance warning before his arms are pinned and he is engulfed in a hug from his ginormous baby brother. "Oh, god, no. Sam, leggo of me." Dean is struggling again, but Sam won't let go. "Sammy, no chick flick stuff." Dean's voice is muffled by being pressed into his brother's chest.

Sam laughs. "Shut up, Dean. I need this right now. Lucifer scared me half to death." Sam keeps hugging. Rests his cheek on the top of his brother's head, as if determined to remind Dean that it's an important handful of inches he's grown. "The glue. That's good. Yeah, I fall apart without you."

"I interrupting you two idgits?" Bobby asks from the doorway.

"Help, Bobby, he's smothering me," Dean yelps, and his brother gives him one more squeeze then lets him go.

"Sorry." Sam's grinning at Dean not looking the least bit sorry. "I really was scared, though."

Dean shakes his head. "When has that ever stopped you? I remember when we were kids, you would awe me with how you were always ready to do what you thought was right, no matter how scared you were. I'd be quaking in my boots and you would stand right up to anyone, Dad, even. Man, Sammy, you've always been so brave."

"Yeah, well, you raised me right." Sam's not arguing, but he remembers Dean as being the really brave one. Realizes his brother has just made everything all better, again. Even though he's close to thirty now. Sam moves like he's going to hug Dean again, but Dean is prepared this time and stays out of arms' range.

Bobby clears his throat. "Would you ladies like the room longer?" He sets the bag of sausage biscuits on the table, careful to wipe his eyes before turning back around. "So I gather we're all good? On the same not-giving-up page?"

With Dean's urging the three hunters enter the room with Amelia and Cas, where they still sit: Castiel stiff and unmoving, and Amelia with her face buried in her hands. Bobby hands out the biscuits, sets the rest on the table, and introduces himself to Amelia. Then he asks Cas to bring them all up to speed.

"Amelia says that Jimmy's uncle, his father's brother, has called asking to meet with her today. Mark Novak," he adds, "from the list."

"Balls," Bobby growls. "You all will have to cover that. I'm scheduled to hook up with a few contacts for the crap on your 'shopping list.' They're meeting me halfway, and I can't have you lot with me."

Letting her breath out slowly, Amelia Novak raises her head again, eyes fixed somewhere between all of them, and indicates Dean without looking at him. "He's not welcome. I just. . . I can't be near him. It's too much."